The Lost Country, Episode Two

Chapter 5

“READY?”

I looked at Lazaro and he looked back. “Ready.” He squinted at me suddenly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

I shrugged. “No reason.” I took a deep breath. “Okay. Remember, hands in the air.”

He put his hands in the air.

Then we moved out; stepping into the sunshine from the cool shadow of the expedition vehicle, raising our hands as though we were surrendering.

“Easy does it ...”

There was a rattle of arms as they noticed us and hurriedly re-trained their weapons.

“Halt! Who goes there?”

Both of us froze. “A-Americans. Two of us,” said Lazaro. “We want to talk.”

The wind blew; the sun beat down. Nobody said anything.

“Daryl,” snapped one of them at last—after which a skinny blonde dude stepped out (he couldn’t have been more than 17) and seemed to hesitate; looking at us over his rifle, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, before shuffling forward quickly and giving us a pat-down—briefly, hurriedly. “They’re good,” he said.

The man who’d directed him to frisk us—he looked like John Goodman, I swear—motioned for us to come forward.

“That’s close enough,” he said, after we’d closed the gap. “Trent, Brady, Mitchell—cover us. Everyone else, hold your positions.” He seemed to relax—slowly, grudgingly. “Americans, you say.” He handed the skinny guy his weapon—some kind of long rifle, who knows. “That doesn’t really feel complete to me. You say you’re Americans. Which one?”

Lazaro and I glanced at each other.

“Both of us,” said Lazaro, and straightened a little. “Born and bred.”

Jesus, I thought, and rubbed my brow.

The man stiffened. “Hands in the air.”

I raised my hands—after which he seemed to lighten, and just chuckled. “No, I mean: Which America?”

I looked at Lazaro, who hesitated. “The—the only one,” he said. “The only America. Tucker’s America.” He feigned confusion. “What other is there? I mean; since the Flashback, that is?”

The man didn’t say anything, only glanced at the skinny kid, whose face was a wreck of pimples.

That’s when we heard it: the sound of diesel engines—lots of them—coming down the hill, coming down Mount Lee Drive.

He snatched the radio from his belt. “We’re over here—in front of the trucks. We’ve got two of them,” he said.

And then the trucks began to appear, rumbling down the service road like a cavalry, like an armored support column, black smoke billowing from their exhaust stacks and Tucker flags flying; their huge, aggressive-looking front grills gleaming, the radio and C.B. antennas whipping—until they’d made a parking lot of the base of the hill and their drivers had begun getting out—many of them wearing red hats and loud shirts, campaign buttons, red, white and blue leis—and all of whom headed our way and partially surrounded us; at least, until a singular personage—a towering man in blue jeans and a black T-shirt, who wore a strikingly-sculpted beard and a gleaming white Stetson—parted them like the Red Sea: the MAGA Nephilim, the “No More Bullshit” Moses, and joined our little drum circle.

“They say they want to talk,” said the first man, “but I wanted to wait until you got here. We, ah, we don’t know anything yet.”

The man in the Stetson just looked at us, his hands on his hips. Then he took a few steps toward Gargantua and paused, his great, broad back facing us.

His silence seemed to make the first man uncomfortable. “What do you think? You, ah, ever seen anything like it?”

The towering figure didn’t move, didn’t budge, only continued staring at the stainless steel vehicle, which gleamed beneath the sun.

At length he said: “Devin tells me you want to talk.” He paused to clear his throat. “That you—that you got something to say.” He reached up slowly and stroked his beard—thoughtfully, meditatively—before turning to face us. “So say it. Talk. You can start with your names. I’m Denton.”

We both just looked at him, unsure how to begin.

“I’m Jamie,” I said, and held out my hand. “Jamie Klein. This here is Lazaro.”

He looked at my hand as though he was uncertain what to make of it. Then he gripped it; gently at first, but then squeezing suddenly and briefly, crushingly—if only for an eyeblink. Message received, I thought.

He shook hands with Lazaro.

I chose not to waste any time: “We’re here for one of the parabolic antennas,” I lied. “From the Communications Facility. Our engineer thinks he can use it to replace our existing one, which is malfunctioning.”

Denton raised an eyebrow—as though that wasn’t what he’d expected. He glanced at Gargantua and then back to me. “For that?”

I nodded, saying nothing.

“I see,” he said. He raised his chin abruptly. “So you’re not—affiliated with anyone? FEMA? Red Cross? The United Nations?”

I shook my head.

“NATO? EUFOR?” He looked us up and down, first me, then Lazaro. “No. I don’t suppose you are.” He indicated Gargantua again. “And the rig?”

I told him the truth: that someone in our group had known about it before the Flashback, in Seattle, and that after the time-storm we’d stolen it. And that that was all—

“Seattle?” exclaimed the first man, ‘Devin,’ incredulously. He harrumphed. “I thought you said you were Americans.”

Denton suppressed a smirk. His eyes had lit up at mention of Seattle too. “That where you’re from, Jamie Klein?”

I could see where this was going. “Originally—yes. But we left the shithole to seek a warmer climate, a southern climate.” I looked him directly in the eye. “And better people. Loyal people. Like you.” I looked around at the others. “Like all of you.”

He followed my gaze, seeming to appreciate the sentiment (although it was hard to tell, really, because he was squirrely, this Denton: a sidewinder dressed as a straight-shooter). “Well, I’m glad you feel that way, Jamie. I really am. But we’ve got a problem—several of them, actually. The first is, we can’t let you do that: take the antenna. As part of the Array, it’s got to go—it’s got to be destroyed. Second, we’re not currently accepting—which is to say, if you’re looking to join our train, we can’t take you. And the third is—we’ve already claimed this land. Hollywood, that is. Everything from Beverly Hills in the south to the Santa Monica foothills in the north—it’s, ah, it’s ours now. I’m thinking you probably noticed our banners. Oh, yeah. And the fourth.” His blue eyes met my own, piercingly, unflinchingly. “You’re trespassing. And you need to leave. Like, now. Also—if we see you again,” He shrugged, real cute-like: “We’ll execute you.”

I looked from him to Devin and onto the pimply kid. “So that’s it. No discussion, no compromise; not even a reason why.”

“There’s a reason. It’s because there’s important work that needs to be done.” He half-turned to face the others. “Isn’t that so? Isn’t there important work to be done?”

“Important work,” said a woman in a foam campaign hat, and smiled. “American work.”

“To end the Chinese Flashback,” said someone else.

“And detonate the charges,” said another. “To knock down the Array.”

I must have looked confused. “I—Okay. What’s the Array?”

He raised an eyebrow sharply. “You mean you don’t know?” He looked from me to Lazaro. “Neither of you?”

“Yeah, I know,” said Lazaro. “It—it’s a secret high-power, high-frequency transmitter ... said to be somewhere in the U.S.” He looked at his shoes as though vaguely ashamed. “Some say it’s Chinese. Others say deep state. You know ... conspiracy stuff.”

Denton just looked at him. “Conspiracy stuff,” he said. He began pacing around us. “Well, let me tell you—Lazaro from Seattle—we’ve been up there, to this so-called ‘Communications Facility,’ and there ain’t nothing normal about it; all right? Fact is, it’s been designed to look like just another antenna farm, that’s how it’s stayed hidden all these years. Another fact is: it’s home to the second High-frequency Active Auroral Research Program, or HAARP², which just happens to be what caused the Flashback.”

He circled back around to face us and paused. “Got it? That’s what started it all, see. That’s what brought hell down upon us.” When neither of us said anything, he added, “They were messing with the ionosphere, man, don’t you get it? That’s what let Them in ...” He indicated the lights in the sky, which hadn’t been particularly active since we’d left Seattle. “That’s when They became aware of us. When They—how did H.G. Wells say it? ‘Drew their plans against us.’”

Everyone seemed to look at me, I have no idea why.

“You’re f*****g crazy,” I said. “You—you’ve totally lost it.”

“Have I?”

“It’s a f*****g antenna farm, Denton!” I glanced around us at the throngs of people. “I mean, is that what you people actually believe? Christ, did it steal the election, too? Is that what kind of bullshit you’re trying to pass off?” I glared at Denton. “We’re done here. Let’s go, Lazaro.”

“Now wait just a f*****g—”

And he lunged at me—which was followed by the sound of Gargantua’s .50 caliber swinging around, locking into position. Which was followed by it ratcheting down, down, until it was trained on Denton alone.

“Nobody move!” he shouted, splaying his hands, even as there was a riot of shifting arms. “Is that clear?”

But nobody did; move, that is, not even when Lazaro and I walked back the way we had come and ascended the ramp into Gargantua; where I gave the order to retreat and go back down the hill and Sam did, operating the rover like a champ—even though she’d only driven it twice before—backing into a driveway (one I hadn’t even noticed) to reverse direction, taking us all the way to Rodgerton Street and beyond.

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